


They're Putting Me Down Too

by pocketsebastian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Happy Ending, Kidlock, Redbeard - Freeform, Sad middle, Spoilers for His Last Vow, Teen!Sherlock, Teenlock, briefly mentioned Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, kid!Sherlock, teen!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsebastian/pseuds/pocketsebastian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s seven when he comes home with scabby knees and a bruised cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Putting Me Down Too

He’s seven when he comes home with scabby knees and a bruised cheek. Mummy and Daddy exchange looks and Mummy patches him up while Daddy makes phone calls. Mycroft just rolls his eyes and returns to his studies. Sherlock just lets Mummy put the plasters on and listens to her coo to him. When Daddy gets off the phone, he tells Sherlock and Mycroft to get their coats on, that they’re going somewhere. Mycroft complains, says he has homework and that ‘Father _promised_ he’d help’. Daddy brushes it off, says he’ll help and that he has all weekend to do his homework, that that this is important.

‘Somewhere’ turns out to be an animal shelter. A man greets the family, and Daddy says that their looking for a dog for his son. Mycroft gives a noise of annoyance. Mutters something about not liking dogs. Daddy just hushes him, says that they’re here for Sherlock.

The man kneels down in front of Sherlock and smiles at the seven year old, who frowns at him. “I bet you want to see the puppies, huh?” the man asks, before Sherlock harrumphs and says that, _no_ I don’t want a puppy. The man just laughs, ignores him, thinks he’s just a child and that because of that _of course_ he wants a puppy. Sherlock grinds his teeth together, lets the man drag him to the puppies, and only after he’s shot down each and every one does the man relent and bring him to the dogs.

Sherlock scans the cages as he walks back and forth down the hall, taking in each dog carefully. There’s a pug (too small), a poodle (‘yuck’), a chow mix, golden lab, a retriever. Boring, boring, boring. It’s when he passes a cage, with a big red dog inside it, that Sherlock stops. He stares. The dog snuffles, looks at him, and then barks. Sherlock stares back, watching the dog’s tail wag as he stares up at him. Sherlock blinks a few times, and then looks at the stock card with all the information for the dog.

“ _Bill, Irish Setter, found stray, Neutered: Y, Lived with children: NA, Lived with cats: NA, Lived with dogs: NA”_

Sherlock’s nose crinkles at the name. Well, that certainly wasn’t a name for a dog. Bill? Sherlock snorts, letting go of the stock card so it flops down and clinks against the metal bars. Sherlock kneels down in front of the dog—he refuses to call him _Bill_ —and holds out his hand, like Daddy showed him how to do with Grandmere and Grandpere’s dogs when he first met the Yorkie dogs. The dog leans his head forward and snuffles at the hand through the bars. Sherlock smiles at the wet nose that brushes his fingertips, and he can hear footsteps behind him.

“’s that him, then?” he hears Daddy ask him, and Sherlock nods. Giggles once when the dog worms his tongue through the bars to lap at Sherlock’s fingers. Daddy smiles, and Sherlock can hear it on his Daddy’s lips when he tells the man to get whatever papers he needs to sign. While Daddy and the man discuss the papers, Sherlock looks at the lock on the cage door. Well, that’s not really necessary anymore, now is it? If this is his dog…Sherlock grabs a bobby pin he’d grabbed from Mummy’s dresser and stuffed in his pocket ages upon ages ago. Sticks the pin into the lock like Mycroft showed him once.

Mycroft clicks his tongue disapprovingly. The fourteen year old grumbles, “Father’s going to be upset, Sherlock. Don’t be stupid and just be _patient_.” But Sherlock dismisses the words. Both brothers know patience isn’t one of Sherlock’s strong suits. There’s the sound of clinking, of the bobby pin scraping around clumsily. Finally the lock gives, clicks, and Sherlock opens the cage door. The Irish Setter woofs and trots out happily, circling Sherlock happily before sitting at his feet, nudging Sherlock hand until Sherlock could scratch at his ears. The dog lolls his tongue out, makes happy whining noises, and Sherlock can’t help but giggle. Mycroft clicks his tongue once more, and hurries off to find Daddy.

Daddy can’t be mad at Sherlock though. He talks the man back into letting them adopt the dog, that Sherlock was just excited and wanted to pet the dog. The hand over the papers, and Daddy clicks on a lead onto the collar provided. On the ride home, Mycroft sits up front with Daddy, and Sherlock curls up on the back seat with his new dog, is whole body curled into the Irish Setter’s side while the dog’s head rests atop his own.

When they get home, Mummy’s ecstatic. Mycroft teases Sherlock when they get home, tells him he’s too stupid to make friends on his own. Sherlock ignores him in favour of bringing the dog out back to romp around with. It’s hours before Sherlock comes back in, and after a good scrubbing in the bath to get all the dirt and dog slobber off, he and the dog curl up on his bed. Sherlock had nicked one of Daddy’s handkerchiefs from his bedroom, a nice red one, and has tied it around the dog’s neck. Mummy comes in to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight. When Sherlock demands that she kiss his new friend as well, Mummy complies and pecks the top of the dog’s head. She asks him, before she leaves the room, what he’s named the dog.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock mumbles, already situating himself to cuddle with the dog.

The two are inseparable. On school days, Redbeard’s waiting outside for Sherlock to walk up. He’s at Sherlock’s side to lick any scrapes or cuts, nuzzle any bruises, lap away tears stains on Sherlock’s cheeks. When Sherlock shies away from family events, when he gets anxious because he knows the people find him weird, find him _different_ , Redbeard stays flopped in his lap, though he’s far too big to be a lap dog. Sherlock’s fingers carding through the soft fur calms both in ways Sherlock didn’t know possible. He doesn’t worry as much, he doesn’t feel so weird. Even when people tease him about his only friend being a four-legged mutt (their words, Sherlock never thinks that about Redbeard, not about his faithful and best friend).

When Sherlock’s twelve, Redbeard starts limping. The stairs get more difficult for the Irish Setter. He can’t do walkies as long as he used to. Sherlock makes Father move his bed down to the ground floor of their home so that Redbeard doesn’t have to limp so far. He makes sure that everything Redbeard could want is down on the ground floor, makes sure that Redbeard is comfortable and rests. When they take Redbeard to the vet, the vet confirms that he has arthritis. Sherlock doesn’t understand, and when he’s at a library, he asks for a medical reference book that covers arthritis. Sherlock looks for ways to make it easier for Redbeard, finds that not only has the vet prescribed a medicine for the dog, but that he can also do things to help his friend.

He gives Redbeard long, warm baths, made to ease the joints in Redbeard’s body. He makes sure that their walks are quicker, not as rushed. He takes breaks when they play, let’s Redbeard sit and relax while he rubs his legs slowly and carefully, not wanting to agitate the dog. Mycroft’s gone away by now, at university. When he comes home for holidays, he doesn’t say anything about Sherlock’s care for the dog. He knows better by now, knows that Sherlock isn’t going to make any friends by now, that the teenager doesn’t want any friends besides Redbeard. He does, however, voice his concerns to Mummy and Father, wanting to know if they have anything planned for when the dog does eventually pass away. No one expected Sherlock to get as attached to Redbeard as he has, after all. He was a pet, but he was supposed to be companionship to help Sherlock gain the social skills necessary to get him some friends. No one expected Sherlock to shut out every human being in his classes. No one expected him to latch onto the dog as he has.

Mummy just says they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. Father is quiet for a minute, glances at his wife. They share one of their silent conversations. Mycroft lets the matter drop for now. No sense worrying about it if they aren’t, he figures. Then again, Mummy and Father aren’t exactly…Well, Sherlock’s the spitting image of their mother in terms of intelligence and peculiarities.

Fourteen is when Mummy brings forward the idea of having Redbeard put down. His movements have slowed, he doesn’t play anymore, and he’s in more pain than necessary. Sherlock slams his bedroom door in her face, says that that’s not happening and that Redbeard is _fine, thank you very much_. Sherlock and Redbeard don’t emerge from the room for two days, but whenever Mummy puts a can of wet food for Redbeard and a sandwich for Sherlock in front of the bedroom door, she returns later to find an empty plate and can waiting for her.

The idea isn’t approached again for a while. Not to the teenager himself, though. Sherlock hears Mummy and Father murmuring about it late at night, when they think he’s asleep. Sherlock pets Redbeard, tells him they’re not taking his friend away, that he’s going to be okay.

Mycroft’s the one that comes up with the plan. He’s back from uni for a few weeks, Sherlock’s still in school. He suggests they take Redbeard in while Sherlock’s gone, tells them that they can put it all on him. Sherlock and his relationship have already deteriorated anyway. One more wedge won’t harm the gap already between the two brothers. Mummy’s hesitant at first. Sherlock’s not coming home with scrapes anymore. Now he’s coming home with black eyes, broken noses, sprained wrists and cracked ribs. Father says that it’ll be fine. They can do it again, if need be. Get Sherlock another dog or something more exotic. Mycroft and Mummy both know it won’t work, replacing Redbeard.

They do it after Sherlock’s left for school.

When Sherlock comes home, he’s not at all surprised that Redbeard isn’t waiting for him outside. It’s been ages since the dog did so, having trouble moving his legs. It’s gotten to the point where walking to the kitchen is difficult, and Mummy has to lay down newspaper so that Redbeard can ‘go’ in the house. When he doesn’t find Redbeard in his room or the kitchen or even outside, Sherlock gets worried. Mycroft’s the one that hands him the collar, a frayed and rough red thing that was only taken off to change the tag that read _Bill_ to one that read _Redbeard_. Sherlock’s quiet for a few moments, staring at the collar in his hands.

A flurry of movement, and Mycroft’s pinching a bleeding nose in the kitchen minutes later, the sound of a slamming door ringing in his ears. No one says anything when they hear Sherlock’s anguished screams and, later, the muffled sound of his crying.

He doesn’t come out for two weeks.

It’s years later before anyone brings up Redbeard again, and Sherlock’s mildly surprised when it happens to be Mycroft. Strangely, the reminder still calms him, after all these years.

It’s another few years, after he’s settled down with a silver haired DI, that he opens a box with air holes, already knowing an animal of some sort is inside, and swallows hard when a wriggling ball of red fur looks up at him, yips once, and then jumps out of the box to pin Sherlock to the ground and lick at his face.


End file.
